


Does It Really Matter?

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6742885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was challenged to write a fic that was strictly sex- no storyline at all.  Umm, yeah, so there you have it.  3000 words of smut (but hopefully beautiful smut!).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Does It Really Matter?

Does it really matter how it began? How they came to be in this position, the very tips of his fingers birthing goosebumps along the skin of her arms, tracing a path so wandering she can’t restrain the shiver that slides through her body? Can’t stop the strangled gasp that escapes from her throat?

Does it really matter why his warm, hard chest is only a hair’s breadth away from her hungry back, why her head is teetering on her neck, ready to drop back against his shoulder and never right itself again? 

No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter at all. 

All that matters is that they’re finally here, stepping across that metaphorical line, the one neither remembers actually drawing. The line that stops them, every damn day, from falling into each other’s arms, from thrusting themselves so desperately into one another’s orbits, there’d be no chance of ever escaping. 

Her apartment is dark. Like early morning just before dawn, except that it’s not dawn now, it’s late into the night. It’s late enough to pretend there is no line, it’s dark enough to pretend they can’t see it, even if it were to actually exist.

She feels it beneath her toe though, as his breath falls hot against her neck, as she struggles not to whimper while he leans closer, closer, curling himself around her like an umbrella. She never realized that HE was all she needed on those cold, rainy days.

She feels it beneath her heel, as his fingers snake their way into the short silk sleeves of her blouse, tickling their way to her shoulders, teasing, driving away all thought from her now-suddenly-fuzzy brain. Can he feel her heart hammering in her chest, her breaths quickening? Does he have any idea what he’s doing to her? She could melt right into her hardwood floors right now, she could. 

She grips the back of the couch in front of her as he follows the inner seams of her blouse, as he traces his way from her shoulders and down, around… oh god. His lips brush the outer shell of her ear at the same moment his fingers brush the outer swells of her breasts. It’s the hardest thing she’s ever done not to arch her back into his touch, not to mold her aching flesh into the palms of his hands.

The air sucking through her teeth makes a whistling sound, and her eyes close. Her head finally loses its battle with her wobbling neck, and falls against his shoulder. Her entire body loses its battle with the fucking line, and falls against his chest.

She almost protests when he slips his hands from her sleeves, but his tongue at her pulse convinces her against it. Wet, hot, impossibly soft—his lips join the fray, and without intending it, she lengthens her neck to follow him. He’s taken control of her body, it seems, and she can’t think of anything more erotic. The thought of handing him that power is absolutely intoxicating. 

A soft hum seeps from her throat before she has time to stop it—the way he’s sucking on her clavicle is driving her slowly mad. She’s afraid to let go of the couch, lest her knees give out completely beneath her. He hasn’t touched her anywhere even remotely intimate, and already she is dripping with desire. This shouldn’t surprise her— she’s been wet for him for six desperate years—tonight is no exception. 

“Mulder,” she gasps, and he answers with warm hands taking possession of her hips, spreading to span her abdomen while a quiet moan rumbles against the nape of her neck. The feel of her blouse sliding from her skirt and into his greedy fingers is almost too much. The sensitive skin of her belly hasn’t felt a man’s touch in so very long.

It is electric, once he’s worked his way inside, and her torso collapses into itself briefly, curling down and sucking in, before he pulls her back against him, shushing into her ear. She sighs and reaches her arm, up and back until her fingers encounter the scrub of his stubble, so enticing it makes her tingle.

Her breath is caged within her chest. Because his hands have begun the slow, torturous path from her waist up toward her breasts. The silk of her blouse falls across his wrists like cool water over smooth, hard rocks, and her skin beneath him trembles. This moment has played in her mind too many times to count. 

He’s so deliberate and unhurried, she wants to stomp her foot with childish impatience. She would. If she hadn’t lost all ability to move.

They’ve surged so far beyond the line by now, it’s ridiculous. She will never not want this, she will never turn back. She will only wonder for the rest of her life how she possibly could have lived without him for so long.

Slowly, slowly, he progresses. Until his fingers have found the bottom edge of her bra, and his breaths huff so hotly against her neck, she fears she may burn. Has anyone ever died from anticipation? She grips wildly at his neck with her fingers.

She’s as ready as an overripe plum for him, and when he stops, she can hardly bear it. She arches against him with an impatient whimper to hurry him along. “Fuck, Scully,” he whispers, and then he is there, his palms cupping her swollen breasts, and her knees buckling at the sensation. Her arms fall limply to her sides and he catches her, and both of their moans collide in the air. 

In the ‘V’ between his thumbs and his forefingers, he squeezes her flesh, molding, massaging, but never touching the places she needs him most desperately. Her nipples are so hard and aching against the fabric of her bra, she doesn’t know whether she can take another second. “Please,” she gasps, and she feels his teeth against the tender skin of her neck in retaliation, scraping her senses into oblivion. And then her bra is gone, shoved up crudely so that her breasts are now spilling into his hands. And his fingers are there, rolling her nipples between them. She thinks she may pass out from pleasure. 

“Oh god,” she whimpers, eyes closed as she sinks deeply into the bliss of Mulder’s hands upon her, after so many years of them being anywhere but. His tongue swipes beneath her collar, and his hips thrust roughly into the small of her back. For the first time, she feels his hard cock against her, and it feels so damn tempting, she gasps. So many times watching him try to conceal it, and now he is here, making his desire so known, she’ll probably find bruises as proof tomorrow. 

She presses hungrily back against him, reaching her hand around to find his heated thigh. His answering growl in her ear is primal, and he pinches her nipples so hard, it’s almost painful. But it’s such a glorious pain, she’s ready to beg for more. 

“Jesus,” he grunts, and takes one hand from her breast to slide down her torso and meet the waistband of her skirt. It takes a moment of his fingers grazing her belly for her to realize he’s awaiting permission. Her breast is in his hand, his cock against her back, their breaths gasping in unison, and he’s asking her if she’s sure. She finds that unbelievably hot. Taking his hand in hers, she guides it to her side zipper. Then nudges her hips forward in invitation. 

She feels every tooth of the zipper as it slides down her hip. Like seconds ticking their way toward a bomb. It’s hard not to thrust her hips to the rhythm. Her nipple is held captive in the squeeze of his fingers, momentarily forgotten while he focuses his attention elsewhere.

At the final click, he pauses. She shudders briefly in anticipation. She melts a little when he reaches forward to press a kiss to her cheek, right there in front of her ear. And then he is there, fingers slipping their way between the satin of her panties and the quivering silk of her skin, down, down, until they brush through her curls and slick themselves through her wetness. A barely-there squeak escapes her throat. He cradles her sex as if she’s his most precious treasure, and she surges her hips into his hold.

“God, Scully… just…,” he drops his forehead to her shoulder and she hears the air sucking through his teeth. Then he drags her swiftly backwards with his hand, pressing her pelvis roughly between his hips and his fingers—she’s stuck between a rock and a hard place—she’d laugh at the pun if she weren’t so busy falling apart. If she weren’t so delirious. She doesn’t think she’s ever been this turned on in her entire life. Ever.

She’s thinking that she can’t even see that fucking line anymore—they’ve moved so far beyond it, it’s disappeared—but then his middle finger presses into her swollen flesh, and she’s not thinking anything anymore. She may never think anything again.

Her torso slumps forward, and she reaches again for the back of the couch. She’s somehow misplaced every bone in her body. But his arm across her chest and his hand between her legs keep her physically stable. Mental stability is a different story altogether. 

He drapes himself across her back, engulfing her body with his own, and begins working his finger within her. Slick, deep, rocking against her clit with the heel of his palm. His finger is thick and delicious and, my god, so precise. And when he adds a second, it’s jaw-dropping. 

The wet, sucking sound where their bodies meet fills the room, punctuated by sharp gasps and soft, soft whimpers. His mouth traces paths across each piece of landscape he finds, shoving away fabric to lick at the hills of her shoulders, nudging her slackened jaw to nibble the valley beneath her neck. He remembers her forgotten breast and skids his knuckles across her nipple, spurring a sweet, surprised grunt and a buck of her hips against his hand. 

The ebb and flow of his fingers is mesmerizing, and soon she is rocking, grinding herself against him in time to his rhythm. His hips scoop up behind her on each downbeat, driving his fingers deeper, deeper, so deep, he is touching places within her she wonders whether she even knew existed. 

She realizes she is moaning. And he is moaning. And she is pulsing against his hand, she is literally bouncing, updownupdownupdown, and normally she would be embarrassed, but it feels so fucking amazing, all she can focus on are…his…fingers…right…there… 

Her neck arches until her head rests alongside his throat, and her mouth gapes open in ecstasy. “Yeah…, yeah…,” he murmurs encouragingly against her cheek, speeding up his fingers and twisting her nipple. 

A high-pitched whimper tumbles from her mouth in answer. God, she is so close. Their bodies are undulating like the flames of a fire, flickering and dancing. If it weren’t for his strong arms supporting her, she’d soften right down to the floor. She’s butter, melting against his heat. She’s swiftly being absorbed by him.

His erection grinds into her lower back, and she’s never felt anything more divine. Christ, she wants him so badly. She reaches her hand back and searches frantically, fitting it between their bodies until she’s filled it with his hardness. She thinks she could lose herself in the gravelly moan that rumbles from his chest.

He stills momentarily, overcome by the sensation of her fingers running up and down his length, and suddenly, she can’t wait any longer. His hands are doing amazing things to her, but she’s ached for his cock for six, long years. 

Quickly, sloppily, she takes the hem of her skirt in her hands and hikes it roughly up around her waist, then grips the couch and shoves her ass against his pelvis. 

“Holy shit,” he exhales, ripping his hand from her panties and fumbling frenziedly with his fly. She arches her back and presses more firmly against him. She is so wet for him. The thought of him sliding his way inside her pussy nearly undoes her. Then his hands are there, shoving her panties down her thighs, and she cries out from the utter surprise of it. God, she could come just from this. Just from the knowledge that he wants her just as desperately as she wants him.

And then, sweet Jesus, she feels him. Hard, hot, bobbing against her bare ass. It is the most erotic thing she’s ever experienced, feeling his raw want on her skin for the first time. Her clit throbs, and she feels the evidence of her desire running down her legs; she needs him inside her NOW. “Please,” she whimpers, rocking back against him.

Bending down, he takes his cock and slides it through her dripping folds. Their sharp groans fight greedily for dominance. Both reach quickly beneath her to guide him in, their hands frantic and clumsy. He stoops at the knees and she raises on tiptoes, soft, gentle words sparring between them: “here, let me…,” “no, here, I can’t…” God, just get it in, get it IN! He’s too tall and she’s too short, and goddamn it, she’s going to fucking die if he’s not inside her soon.

Desperate, she leans forward and hitches her knee up onto the back of the couch, raising the tilt of her hips and opening herself up to him, and then, hallelujah, he’s there at her entrance, pressing, pressing, and she’s hissing, “yesssss,” and holy shit, he feels so good finally inside her.

His moan lengthens until he is completely sheathed within her, and she hears his harsh gasping breaths, feels their heat seeping through her blouse. He stills for a moment, then grasps the angled bones of her hips and slides his way back out. She can feel every ridge, every vein of him, stimulating nerve endings she’d completely forgotten she possessed. It is breathtaking.

He hovers there, just barely inside her, and the anticipation is excruciating. She whimpers, wiggling her ass against him, urging him to get on with it. Please, please, please… 

He crashes back into her, and she can’t help from crying out. He withdraws, then crashes, again, again, again. They’re worlds colliding, they’re atoms smashing, they’re the fucking big bang. It’s absolutely exquisite. God, why did they wait so long to do this? 

He is pounding, pounding into her, and each grind of his hips is more glorious than the last. She gives herself over to him. He’s reduced her to a simple, throbbing bundle of nerves. She slumps forward, forehead pressed into the pillows, hands clenched into the cushions, corner of her lip held tightly between her teeth. She’s never felt so properly fucked in her life. He grabs her raised knee and lifts it higher, spreading her further open to him. Then he grips her tightly around the waist and pulls her in. This new angle drives him into her even more deeply, and soon her foot is lifting off the floor with the force of his thrusts.

The noises he’s making are increasing, moving from restrained grunts to deep-seated groans, and she knows her own cries are swelling as well. Pleasure blossoms through her body from her very core, in waves and waves and waves… “Ohmygod…ohmygod… oh…my…godddd….” Until his fingers are there again, between her legs, and he’s grinding against her clit, and finally, with a heave of her body, she is coming. And she feels him coming as well, his thrusts jerky and erratic, his voice pained as he grunts, “Scully!” against her shoulder, while he empties himself inside her. 

His lips find her neck, and she stays there for a moment, swathed in his heaviness, folded across the back of her sofa. Eventually though, gasping breaths recede, and tired bodies seek relief. They slump to the floor, disheveled and spent, and lean back against the piece of furniture. She’ll never look at her couch the same way again. She licks her lips and looks down at her hands in her lap, not quite sure how one should proceed after the fuck-of-a-lifetime with one’s best friend. What’s the proper etiquette in this situation?

But she should have known. She should have known Mulder doesn’t give a shit about etiquette. And that’s exactly what they need right now. 

He nudges her shoulder with his own. She fights back a smile, but doesn’t respond. Then he does it again, this time harder. She gives in and raises her chin, finally meeting his eyes. And she can’t help but grin at the goofy, happy smile on his face. 

“Scully,” he says, “That was fucking HOT.” 

No, it doesn’t really matter how it began. And really, who’s to say when it began anyway? Did it begin tonight, when his fingers first caressed the soft skin of her arms? Or did it begin six years ago, when she walked into his office that first time? Or perhaps it never really began at all. Perhaps they have been fated to reach this very point since the dawn of time.

Regardless, it doesn’t really matter. They’re here now, sagging drunkenly against each other in the dark of night, the line they once struggled to stay behind nowhere in sight.

She laughs in spite of herself, then leans over and takes his jaw in her hands. Then she kisses him.

She’s wanted to do that for six years.


End file.
